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Authors: Mary Carter
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dinner.”
“I’m sure she’s nowhere near as hot as you,” Alan said.
“You’d be surprised.” Alan continued to flip through the book. Lacey watched him intently, praying that any minute he’d tell her he thought the book was a load of crap. He stopped.
“Look,” he said turning the page toward her. “This is a good one.” Lacey glanced at the title. “Building Your Future.” Why had she shown him the book? What if he really liked it? What if he thought she was smarter than Lacey? He definitely couldn’t pretend he didn’t think Monica was hot. Lacey snatched the book away and shoved it back in her purse.
“What’s wrong?” Alan asked. “What did I say?”
“It’s not your present,” Lacey said. “It was a joke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Deaf joke,” Lacey said.
“Explain.”
“The book is total crap,” Lacey said. “Couldn’t you see the book was total crap?”
“Why are you getting so upset?”
“How’s your brother?”
“Why are you changing the subject?”
“How is he?”
“Fine.”
“Is he still getting divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can he be fine?”
“What is going on here?”
“Must be really hard on the kids.”
“Yes. We’ll have to visit.” Lacey reached over and took Alan’s hand.
“Let’s never get married.”
“What?”
“Then we’ll never get divorced.”
“Because Tom is getting a divorce? He’s a workaholic. He’s been ignoring her for years. That’s not me.”
“Most marriages end in divorce.”
“I would die before I would divorce you.”
“Another good reason not to get married. No marriage, no death.” Alan signaled the waiter. They ordered. There were no jokes this time, no laughter. How quickly things changed. Life was unpredictable. After a moment, Alan reached across the table and took Lacey’s hand. He didn’t speak, he simply held it. He knew something was wrong, and without prodding, he was waiting for her to tell him. The touch of his hand softened Lacey, breaking down the tightness she’d felt in her stomach all day. Letting go of it was like sliding down a rope; it started to unravel, and the farther she slipped, the more it burned.
She didn’t want to cry, she didn’t even know why she was crying. She should be angry, angry someone would leave a letter like that in her mailbox. Who left that letter in her mailbox? Who? Who in the hell was Monica Bowman and how was any of it even possible? Lacey didn’t want to face what she’d been thinking all day, what she’d been avoiding thinking, throwing up roadblocks about face thieves and Photoshop. It wasn’t her. That was the terrifying thought occupying Lacey’s stomach. The picture wasn’t stolen from Lacey, the picture was of Monica Bowman, and Monica Bowman was her twin. Lacey let go of the rope, and tears flooded her face. Alan took her other hand as well; he was there for her. He was always there for her.
“Tell me,” he said. He handed her a napkin and gave her back her hands. She wiped her face, took a deep breath, started for her water, but took a drink of wine instead.
“I could have brothers and sisters,” she said.
“Yes,” Alan said. “You could.”
“I want to find out.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I have a right to know where I came from.”
“You’ve never shown any interest before.” It was true. She was abandoned at Hillcrest Children’s Center as an infant. Baby in a basket. Or was it a car seat? It didn’t matter. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Alan said.
“I’m going to pay Margaret Harris a visit,” Lacey said.
“Your house mother from Hillcrest?”
“Yes.”
“You said you’d rather eat live toads than ever see her again.”
There’s a woman out there with my face. She’s writing books and getting famous and stealing bits of my life right out from underneath me. She’s using my image on her book jacket and her Web site. Monica Bowman. What if you were meant to be with her?
“I’m sure she’s nowhere near as hot as you,” Alan said.
“You’d be surprised.” Alan continued to flip through the book. Lacey watched him intently, praying that any minute he’d tell her he thought the book was a load of crap. He stopped.
“Look,” he said turning the page toward her. “This is a good one.” Lacey glanced at the title. “Building Your Future.” Why had she shown him the book? What if he really liked it? What if he thought she was smarter than Lacey? He definitely couldn’t pretend he didn’t think Monica was hot. Lacey snatched the book away and shoved it back in her purse.
“What’s wrong?” Alan asked. “What did I say?”
“It’s not your present,” Lacey said. “It was a joke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Deaf joke,” Lacey said.
“Explain.”
“The book is total crap,” Lacey said. “Couldn’t you see the book was total crap?”
“Why are you getting so upset?”
“How’s your brother?”
“Why are you changing the subject?”
“How is he?”
“Fine.”
“Is he still getting divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can he be fine?”
“What is going on here?”
“Must be really hard on the kids.”
“Yes. We’ll have to visit.” Lacey reached over and took Alan’s hand.
“Let’s never get married.”
“What?”
“Then we’ll never get divorced.”
“Because Tom is getting a divorce? He’s a workaholic. He’s been ignoring her for years. That’s not me.”
“Most marriages end in divorce.”
“I would die before I would divorce you.”
“Another good reason not to get married. No marriage, no death.” Alan signaled the waiter. They ordered. There were no jokes this time, no laughter. How quickly things changed. Life was unpredictable. After a moment, Alan reached across the table and took Lacey’s hand. He didn’t speak, he simply held it. He knew something was wrong, and without prodding, he was waiting for her to tell him. The touch of his hand softened Lacey, breaking down the tightness she’d felt in her stomach all day. Letting go of it was like sliding down a rope; it started to unravel, and the farther she slipped, the more it burned.
She didn’t want to cry, she didn’t even know why she was crying. She should be angry, angry someone would leave a letter like that in her mailbox. Who left that letter in her mailbox? Who? Who in the hell was Monica Bowman and how was any of it even possible? Lacey didn’t want to face what she’d been thinking all day, what she’d been avoiding thinking, throwing up roadblocks about face thieves and Photoshop. It wasn’t her. That was the terrifying thought occupying Lacey’s stomach. The picture wasn’t stolen from Lacey, the picture was of Monica Bowman, and Monica Bowman was her twin. Lacey let go of the rope, and tears flooded her face. Alan took her other hand as well; he was there for her. He was always there for her.
“Tell me,” he said. He handed her a napkin and gave her back her hands. She wiped her face, took a deep breath, started for her water, but took a drink of wine instead.
“I could have brothers and sisters,” she said.
“Yes,” Alan said. “You could.”
“I want to find out.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I have a right to know where I came from.”
“You’ve never shown any interest before.” It was true. She was abandoned at Hillcrest Children’s Center as an infant. Baby in a basket. Or was it a car seat? It didn’t matter. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Alan said.
“I’m going to pay Margaret Harris a visit,” Lacey said.
“Your house mother from Hillcrest?”
“Yes.”
“You said you’d rather eat live toads than ever see her again.”
There’s a woman out there with my face. She’s writing books and getting famous and stealing bits of my life right out from underneath me. She’s using my image on her book jacket and her Web site. Monica Bowman. What if you were meant to be with her?
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